


Hold The World Inside

by vanishing_time



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Comfort, Concerts, Deacury, M/M, Memories, Smoking, the end of an era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 06:23:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17955260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishing_time/pseuds/vanishing_time
Summary: John can sense the approaching closure long before it happens.Sort of an insertion for my other Deacury fic,Turn Back The Tide, but can be read as a separate story.





	Hold The World Inside

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck-_

A crimson cloud covers his mind, coming down on him, thick and red and maddening, yet still more bearable than the emptiness he’s been feeling all the time during the concert.

He hears the yell of the audience, the cheering, the screaming. Good lord, how he hates them at this moment.

Thank God it’s finally over. The strap of his bass is cutting into his neck as he yanks it off himself.

Bloody music, bloody gigs.

_No point. No point. No sense. No meaning. There is no point in this._

This amazing, truly amazing life, a life that millions can only dream of, where everyone knows their names, they worship them, they admire them, they inspire people, people who never even think about the price they have to pay for the success. The alienation, the exhaustion, the struggle. Going on and on and on, creating, always creating, for what?

He never meant for it to consume his life. It just... _happened._

He feels his arms lifting, his body spinning, he feels his fingers letting go the neck of his beloved bass, the instrument flying across the stage, hitting the floor with an awful crash, audible even through the noise of the stadium.

He's not looking back, not even bothering to wave to the crowd as he's storming off, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the top of an amplifier. He faintly hears Brian shouting something at him, sees a technician running up the stage to clean up the mess he’s made.

He passes the dressing rooms now, stepping outside the building.

It’s raining, and he sits down on the stairs, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers, inhaling it deeply like the bloody drug it is.

The red fog is receding, and here comes the terrible, terrible emptiness again.

He knows, he just _knows._

He hears steps behind him.

_Great._

The last thing he wants to do is apologize.

He does not want to see any of them.

Smell of sweat, and a man is coming over him in a flash. Even the way his clothes swish, even the sound of his steps is flamboyant and fabulous.

John huffs, looking up at him for a second before staring back into the night again.

There are no answers there.

Freddie sits down next to him, without saying a word, but Freddie knows him better than anyone else in the band, better than his other friends, he knows when to speak or not to speak. He knows what to say when John is unable to form words, he knows what to do, how to react, how to cut a dash or how to make trouble.

They sit there in silence, the chill of the night is strangely comforting on their heated, sweaty bodies. The summer rain falls calmly, relentlessly.

John puts out his stub, putting another piece of cigarette between his lips, searching for the lighter in his pocket.

"You look like a peony with a snout between its petals. Stop doing that shit."

Freddie's voice is dry and prim. John looks at him, one eyebrow raised before lighting the piece, inhaling and blowing the fume upwards.

He can’t believe Freddie's just used his big brother voice on him. The voice that used to guide him and protect him from the storms of the rock world back when they were incredibly young and carefree.

John thinks of Freddie’s numerous types of voices: the big brother voice; a fatherly and protective voice, used to shield John or the other members from the assholes they inevitably met during their careers. He remembers Freddie using the _‘you bloody motherfucker’_ voice when their agency refused to lend John money for a house.

He also has a sweet, playful voice he uses to praise them when they are composing another great piece of music. An _‘are you shitting me, darling’_ voice when the band is arguing.

And he has a voice John remembers so well from ages ago. Soft, tender, loving. Admiring, worshipping.

Sensual, hoarse. That was once reserved for him, only for him.

_"My only Deacy..."_

He feels his stomach clench, but he shakes his head. That was an awful damn long time ago.

Ages ago.

They are running out of time without even nearing what deep inside they all truly planned to achieve. So many secret dreams were yet to be fulfilled.

He looks at Freddie, his annoyance and anger have calmed down now by his presence. Freddie returns his gaze and holds it, still sweaty from the performance, dressed in his stage clothes, his black hair sticking to his forehead.

It’s not really necessary for them to speak right now, Freddie's eyes tell him everything he already knows; but John still must word it anyway. Maybe he's mistaken. Maybe relief and salvation do exist.

He's a young boy again, barely twenty, and he needs someone to tell him that he's silly, and everything is gonna be fine.

"This was the last one." The taste of the tobacco is bitter and sharp in his throat, on his tongue.

"What do you mean?"

Oh, Freddie knows exactly what John means.

Of course he does. He always knows what John means. He's John’s voice.

"We won't perform ever again like this, right?" He states it, rather than asks it, looking away, the black night attracting his gaze.

Freddie just sighs.

"You really should stop smoking. It's bad for you."

"Oh, don’t be such a dad," John answers, without any annoyance. He embraces the consuming emptiness. He knows there would be a disaster if he let himself feel anything right now.

Suddenly Freddie reaches over him, trying to take the cigarette from his hand. John jerks in surprise, reflexively holding his hand away, but Freddie drapes himself over him, his body hot and his smell so strong, trying to grab the stub.

"What are you doing? Stop it!" John struggles to hold his hand farther away, pushing on Freddie’s shoulder, and their faces are suddenly against each other's as they both stop in mid-movement.

Freddie's face is sweaty, brows furrowed, his eyes dark with anger and such incredible sadness underneath that John’s breath hitches in his lungs.

Freddie is so, so close. John doesn't even know whether it really happens at all, or if it’s just a memory. The touch of lips against his, insecure, lasting but for a few seconds, soft and pliant and salty. His eyes close, his lips wanting to open and taste, but then it's already over and he's sitting there stupidly, the cigarette snatched from his hand.

Freddie looks really self-satisfied now, taking a long, deep sip of his stolen cigarette before flicking it away, into the night where their emotions and gazes and memories are thrown.

"Damn," John says, not knowing what to feel. He runs his hand through his hair, on the verge of tears. He just wants to cry.

Like that would make this better.

"You're not wearing your rings anymore," Freddie says casually, voice indifferent. Good. If John could distinguish any emotions in it, he might scream.

"No." Silence. Why the hell are they talking about this? He put the ring with the black onyx somewhere away ages ago, when he accepted he can't have the best of both worlds. "My fingers are getting thicker. They don't really fit anymore."

"Not even your wedding ring?"

"No. Sadly, no."

Freddie sits closer to him, so John can feel his body heat. It comforts and destroys him.

How long will this last?

How long will he be here?

"You might be right," Freddie says after a while, putting an arm around John's back. "This might have been our last gig. You usually get these things right, before any of us knows." Silence. Freddie's hand is light and secure on his back, like a sunny day that will eventually come to a twilight. The wing of a guardian angel. "I always thought you were a sorcerer, Deacy."

His throat is tightening.

"Goddamn you," John says, voice trembling. "Goddamn this whole bloody thing."

The tears are flowing freely now, without him feeling anything besides that terrible void.

"I'm sorry," Freddie says quietly, sounding sincere.

"It's not your fault," John shrugs, shaking his head. "Not your fault."

And it’s true. But does it matter?

Maybe it’s John’s fault.

"And I’m sorry for burdening you with this. Without telling the others yet."

Freddie knows that the worst thing he can do is leaving them. But what can they do about it besides hoping for a miracle?

John wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "Don’t be silly. You're my best friend, I'm glad you told me."

"I’m gonna tell the others too, tonight."

"I think they suspect something." Pause. "Do you want me to be there with you?"

Pause. "That would be nice. But only if you want to."

"Sure." John gathers his courage to look at Freddie now, seeing his cheeks shining, his eyes a bit red.

"You’re a good friend, Deacy."

John snorts and rubs his eyes. Fuck. He's gotta gather his bass and apologize to the technicians. Those poor guys surely do have a lot of shit to put up with from the hysterical Queens.

They sit there in silence again, and John really wants to smoke. Or drink some more. Or snort some cocaine, what the hell. Freddie's right, he smokes damn too much recently.

"What now? What are we gonna do?"

_What am I gonna do without my voice?_

"We'll manage somehow, darling. As long as it goes."

"How long?" He sounds so childish now and he knows it. Freddie doesn't say anything, so John stays wordless too.

"I won’t be doing it without you," John says finally, the truest thing that’s ever left his mouth.

Neither of them moves, they just keep looking in the abyss.

"I knew that from the first day." Of course he knew. Freddie really knows him.

The small raindrops keep coming.

"If you could go back… would you do anything differently?" John doesn't know why he asks that. It just comes out.

Freddie is silent, considering the answer.

"Most things, not. One or two things... yes." His voice is incredibly tender. "What about you?"

John thinks of his life, picking at the calluses on his fingertips. He thinks of his children's screaming on summer beaches. His wife's gorgeous eyes in the sunshine.

"No."

A pause.

Freddie's smile in the candlelight.

"And yes."

They sit, shoulder to shoulder as the rain is falling quietly.


End file.
